Wander Down A Little Farther
by lalalyds2
Summary: What happens when a fighter stops fighting? What happens when she stops needing to? Iracebeth has lost her crown but regained her sister. Now she must live in a world that she will never quite fit in with. Mostly because they want her head. Irony abounds. Spoilers for Alice Through The Looking Glass. Rated M for graphic violence in chapter three. Read and review, if you please.
1. What To Do

_Hello everyone! I just recently watched Alice Through The Looking Glass (twice), and I've realized I cannot live without more. Luckily, with the beauty of fanfiction, I don't have to!  
My intentions for this story used to be a chronicle of one shots, but now they've changed into a mini-series. My imaginings of what happened afterward, with primary focus on Iracebeth. Time too, because he's an adorable, lonely god and I have such a weakness for those.  
I hope you like my fantasies, and I'd love to hear your thoughts on them!  
Enjoy._

* * *

She hates council meetings.

The nobility, her supposed advisors, either fawn over her in hopes of gaining a favor or they're constantly trying to usurp her.

No wonder Iracebeth dissolved her council when she was reigning queen.

Then again, Iracebeth's not exactly a shining example of a good monarch.

Commanding? Yes.

Powerful? Yes.

Good? Well...

Perhaps she'll bring her into the next meeting.

The Duke of Kinygent believes Mirana weak and is threatening war.

No one knows war better than Iracebeth.

But the kingdom hasn't forgiven her yet.

Mirana has forgiven and been forgiven, but the scars are fresh, and the citizens will not forget.

Mirana's certain they'll forgive her someday, though it might take half of forever.

Iracebeth isn't so much as changed as she is resigned but the hatred is slowly uncoiling its ugly black tentacles from around her heart.

The citizens will come to see that, they'll have to.

Mirana has lost her sister too many times to count, and by the blood of the Jabberwocky, she won't lose her again.

* * *

She almost wishes she was back in the Outlands.

There, she could at least pretend she was lonely from the lack of people.

Here, she's lonely because the people don't like her.

Mirana says not to blame them.

She does anyway.

It's hard not to, when they only acknowledge her existence with short and snide comments.

She's heard the whispers too. The discontent, the malice, the treason.

Disbelief over her pardoned crimes—outrage really.

How can such bloody hands be so easily wiped clean?

They can't.

She knows it as well as anyone else.

She agrees.

Being good is difficult. Even now she wants their tongues silenced, their glaring eyes ripped out, their pointing fingers pulled off, their lips sown shut before they start mocking her again.

She wants their heads.

Chop them off herself.

She won't do it but she wants to.

Instead she bites her tongue and dreams of setting each and every stupid little head on fire.

She once told Mirana this and had received a scolding.

Ah well.

Old habits die hard.

* * *

Dinner is silent, like always.

Usually it's comfortable, the little round table perfect for reading a book while Iracebeth plays with her too-rare food next to her, but tonight Mirana needs her advice.

She's tried starting conversation twice now but Iracebeth has stubbornly ignored her little coughs. She stares glumly at her food, as though it's done her a great disservice.

A pity party, no doubt, but Mirana hasn't the patience to wait anymore.

"The Duke of Kinygent has declared war," Mirana says.

A long pause. Mirana nearly bursts with her unspoken words. Iracebeth just keeps staring at her food.

"Why?" She asks, a sullen little pout twisting her lips as she finally meets Mirana's eyes.

It's Mirana's turn to stare at her food, slightly embarrassed.

"He believes me unfit to rule."

"Of course, but why?"

The gentle woman bristles at that. After all this time, and Iracebeth still doesn't think she's a good queen.

The feeling is mutual.

"Because of you," she says shortly, already wishing the conversation over. "He deems your crimes unforgivable and demands I repeal your pardon."

She shuts her eyes, remembering his outburst in her court.

" _She is evil and insane. Sister or not, no queen in her right mind would allow her to continue existing. I want, we_ all _want justice. If you cannot give us that, we'll find a ruler who can_."

The memory calms her ire and chills her bones.

"He wants you punished," she whispers.

 _He wants you dead_.

It's unspoken but heard nonetheless.

Iracebeth snorts, goes back to poking at her food.

"Punishment. All my life's been punishment."

Mirana resists the urge to roll her eyes.

Pity party again. Iracebeth's entitled to at least one a day but this is getting excessive.

"Tomorrow I'm meeting with my council," another snort from the red head. "Will you come with me?"

She stops her dark chortle, surprise heavy in those gigantic eyes.

"Why?"

"Because I'd like your advice about his threat."

"Just kill him."

Eyes turn heavenward. Not as rude as rolling eyes, but enough.

"You know my vows."

"Then have someone else kill him."

"I'd prefer a more diplomatic approach to this. I remember you studied this when we were younger."

"Diplomacy is boring."

Mirana sighs, then tries a different approach.

She reaches across the table and holds Iracebeth's hand in hers.

The little fingers stiffen, Mirana holds her breath.

They relax, only slightly.

Her relief tastes bittersweet in her mouth as she smiles.

"Please Racie? For me?" She coaxes.

Heart lips pinch, then sigh in acquiescence.

"Fine. For you."

"Oh thank you, Racie," she exclaims as she stands, kissing the bulbous forehead once before dancing out of the room. "I love you and I'll see you in the morning!"

"I'm not going to happy about it though!" Her sister shouts down the hall.

"You don't have to be," comes the cheery reply.

"Just as long as you show up."

* * *

She's late.

Minutes creep by painfully and with every tick the gentry's mumbles grow louder.

Mirana smiles, they reciprocate, but the tension is palpable.

She won't ever admit it, but she's getting nervous.

She opens her mouth, fully prepared to apologize for the wait and get started—

 _BAM._

The doors slam against the walls and the entire room flinches.

Iracebeth struts in, a smirking array of reds and blacks and confidence.

Mirana feels the instant change.

The council no longer grumbling nobles but a command center, fear and suspicion lurking just under the surface of the guarded faces.

"Have we started?" Iracebeth asks, turning to Mirana.

"No, but—"

"Then let's start with war strategies. I suggest—"

"Your highness," nobleman Iltgud says in his deep baritone.

Her penciled eyebrows raise at the "highness," but he continues.

"Perhaps you aren't aware, but you are late. The _queen_ ," his jowled head nods stiffly in Mirana's direction. "Has not addressed the court yet."

Iracebeth falls back into a dark chair with an exaggerated eye roll.

"I was fully aware, _Iltgud_. I was _hoping_ to skip the pointless drivel but—"

"Thank you, Lord Iltgud," Mirana says quickly, wishing to avoid the unnecessary confrontation. "Why don't we just start with new information on the Duke of Kinygent's demands."

"They're still the same," Lady Obdettam's reedy voice breathes.

"I see. How unfortunate."

She can feel the impatience rearing its head in Iracebeth, knows her mouth is opening, "kill him" readying to fly out.

Mirana places a steadying hand on the jeweled wrist. Not enough to alert the others, just enough to cool the bloodlust hiding behind those dark orbs.

"He demands justice," Lord Iltgud intones, un-surreptitiously staring at Iracebeth.

Mirana's grip tightens until Iracebeth shakes her off.

"First rule of war," Iracebeth states, holding up her index finger. "Never give in to the enemy's demands."

She glances at Mirana then, lips tightening imperceptibly to the untrained eye.

"Unless you've lost."

Mirana huffs. "It's not _war,_ we haven't come to that _."_

 _"Yet."_ Iracebeth smirks, something akin to excitement gleaming in her eyes.

Alarmed whispers escalate between other council members.

"We believe a deal can be made," Lady Obdettam pipes up.

"That's giving up."

"It's compromise, your highness." Lord Iltgud sniffs.

Iracebeth scowls.

"You can compromise, or you can _win_. And in this case, winning would be so easy. They're outnumbered and untrained. We could squash them like a horn-et. And they've only one true water source, cut them off and they're sure to surrender within two weeks."

Mirana tries to speak, Lord Iltgud cuts in.

"You can't possibly suggest endangering the lives of the innocent people under his care."

"Of course I can," she mutters darkly.

"The _queen_ would not allow it."

"How dare you—"

A heated argument erupts between them and the din grows to a crescendo as other, more silent council members voice their dissent.

"What is the compromise?" Mirana asks, barely suppressing the urge to rub her temples.

The room suddenly quiets.

Iracebeth's stunned into silence, Mirana prays her outburst wasn't seen as betrayal.

Too late, she knows how Iracebeth thinks.

She might as well have slapped her in the face.

"Well," Lady Obdettam starts. "It's nearly your original verdict. No one would speak to her, excepting you of course, she'd be put under constant supervision, and she'd stop being tied to and supported by the crown."

Iracebeth's mouth gapes open.

The satisfaction emanating from the council makes Mirana feel sick.

Lord Iltgud addresses Iracebeth, arrogance and condescension dripping in his voice.

"That means—"

"I _know_ what it means," Iracebeth hisses. "I'm disgraced, not stupid."

"Not that you were graceful before," he murmurs.

It's caught by the other council members.

They titter.

Their increasing laughter is interrupted by the grating screech of Iracebeth's chair being pushed from the table.

Her reddened face is bulging, lip twitching, fists clenched white; like a volcano ready to spew its deadly rage.

Oh dear.

"Racie—"

She kicks her chair over, an impressive feat from one so short, and storms out.

Mirana's heart breaks for her.

Again.

"Iltgud," she says testily. "You may be a lord, but you are _not_ a gentleman. Council dismissed."

* * *

Iracebeth is pacing in the marble gardens when Mirana finds her.

"How could you agree to that?" She whirls to face her. Mirana would be afraid if she couldn't see the shining wetness pooling on her sister's lower lashes.

"I haven't agreed to it."

"But you're going to, I know you are." A finger points at her accusingly, she pushes it away.

"I'm trying to keep the damage minimized, Racie."

"By damaging me!"

"What would you have me do?"

"Go to war! Beat the duke into submission!"

"I want his allegiance willingly, Racie. Otherwise he'll just try to revolt later."

"He probably will anyway, better to crush him now."

"You know I don't believe in doing things that way."

"Your way is weak and stupid."

"You're being childish," Mirana says, finally giving in and rubbing her eyes.

"I'm older than you. I'm the eldest, and I should be—"

"Should be queen, yes, I know. But you tried that, and now you're not anymore," Mirana bites out, her legendary patience finally run dry. "And yes, it's my fault. But it was so long ago and I was young and I've apologized a thousand times since. I've grown up."

"Yes, but I can't," Iracebeth hisses, choking on bitterness and anger and the vast _unfairness_ of it all.

It's turning into salt water, stinging and hot, but never falling.

Mirana's frustration dissipates, leaving only a deep sadness.

Iracebeth's growth stagnated after her fall, a child's emotional maturity level trapped inside an aging mind.

It's enough to drive anyone mad.

"You got to grow up," Iracebeth continues.

"You got to be the good one, the smart one, the pretty one. The _loved_ one," she pauses, hands fluttering around her face. "And I got... I got a bloody, big head."

She admits it with a hiccup, admits it for the very first time, and Mirana is overcome.

She flings her arms around her sister's neck, enough tears streaming for the both of them, and holds on for dear life.

"I know, _I know_. It hurts me too, it really does. I want to help you; I just don't know how."

Her sister is warm and soft in her embrace, but her tone is the opposite.

"Fight the duke."

Mirana pulls away, frustrated.

Back to square one.

"You know why I can't."

"Then let me do it."

"That's an even worse idea."

"It isn't."

"Why are you so obsessed with fighting?"

"Because—" Iracebeth stops, stuck.

"Because—"

And suddenly, the tears slip.

"Because it's the only thing I know how to do."

Mirana didn't think it possible, but her heart hurts even more.

A long time ago she accidentally created a monster, and now she's broken her.

* * *

"It will be a few days until we know his reply," Mirana says.

Iracebeth doesn't so much as huff, just stares out her window, looking lost.

"Until then, if you'd like," she says hesitantly. "We can travel together, wherever you want, for a while."

"You mean before I'm stripped of my title, money, and shackled in a hut for the rest of my life?"

She winces.

"It's not quite like that."

"It's _exactly_ like that."

"You won't be shackled, and you won't be completely isolated, like you were before. You'll have me."

"To remind me of all I am denied. How comforting."

" _Iracebeth_."

The redhead sighs, shrugging apologetically before flopping onto her bed.

"I'm going to be so _bored_. What am I to do if not focused on revenge?"

"This is your chance to find out," Mirana says.

Iracebeth just laughs humorlessly.

"I'm serious. Maybe you can go back to things you used to like. You used to love taking care of little creatures, remember? Even the ants."

Her reply is muffled by the arms flung over her face.

"I'd just step on them."

"What about gardening? You made an entire kingdom from roots and vegetables."

Iracebeth sits up, face scrunching in distaste.

"Yes, but that was only because Tick-Tock—" she freezes.

Flops back down, clutching at her sheets and throwing them over her head.

"Tick-Tock?" Mirana asks, confused.

She just shakes her head and burrows further under the red cloth.

"Who's Tick-Tock?"

No answer.

Mirana rubs soothing little circles on Iracebeth's back, the way their mother used to when they were sick.

"Racie?"

"He's a liar, with his ticking chest and his stupid accent."

Ah, she gets it now.

Time.

A sweet and loving god, if a little lonely.

She remembers his worried gaze, affectionate and forgiving, even when his life was quickly ticking away. His concern over Iracie, even as she stole the equivalent of his heart and took it for a catastrophic joyride.

"How is he a liar?"

Iracebeth sits up suddenly, morose and pouting.

"He said he cared, that he loved me, but even from the beginning I knew he was lying. And I was right."

"How could you know that."

"Because no one loves me!"

She sighs.

Iracebeth's constant denial is tiring and more than a little tragic.

"You _know_ I love you, Racie." She reminds her.

"You only love me because you're supposed to. Everyone else pretends to love me to get something out of it."

"Maybe Stayne did that."

"Don't forget Nichard," Iracebeth says.

Ah yes, the former king. A weak, sniveling man who craved the power Iracebeth gave him but lusted after Mirana more.

Her skin still crawls at the thought of him.

"Him too. Maybe they did that. But mother, father, and I, we loved you. As constant as the stars above."

"The stars fade during the day, when I need them most. And they're too far away."

Mirana shakes her head.

"I didn't mean the literal stars."

"Neither did I."

"I'm not far away, Racie."

"But never there when I need you."

She pushes down the indignation at that, because she's starting to understand.

Iracebeth's too used to receiving love, never giving it.

It's hard to accept love if you don't really know what it is to love someone.

"Love goes more than one way, Iracie. You're given love, and you give love back. No expectations, no hidden agendas. You love someone because you like them, you like the things they do and say, you like being around them, and you want them to be happy. You try to add to their happiness."

Iracebeth purses her lips, deep in thought as she mulls the words over.

Comprehension ripples across her face, then shame.

"I'm not very good at loving people, Mirana."

She reaches out for her sister's hand, smiling softly when Iracebeth squeezes back.

"We can work on it together."

"It's not going to be easy. I'm sure I'm going to be difficult."

"I don't mind," she says with a wink, tugging Iracebeth out of bed and into the world.

"All the best things in life are."

* * *

 _And there you have it, the end to my introduction! Apologies for the lack of Iracebeth's weak_ R _'s. Onscreen it works because you know what she's trying to say, on page it's rather confusing.  
I know Iracebeth seems a little out of character, but that is in reaction to her new direction in the film. When we last saw her, everything she's worked for (revenge), has been accomplished, but it always falls apart and never in her favor. And yet, she got what she's always wanted. Validation, vindication, and an apology.  
What will she be like, now that a crucial, bloodthirsty part of her is gone?  
What happens, when a fighter stops fighting? Stops needing to?  
This is my exploration of that.  
Anyway, we'll see how it goes, together!_

 _Fair farren._


	2. Strategies to Apologize

_This stemmed from my need for more Time and Iracebeth together. I tried my best to keep it realistic, not sure I succeeded. I had to leave out Time's accent, as it's a pain to write and I'm not familiar enough with his way of talking. Sorry about that.  
_ _Big shoutout and hug to darling tumblr user i-want-to-be-loud for the inspiration and idea of the ring!_ _  
_ _I'd love to hear your thoughts and comments!_

 _Enjoy._

* * *

Mirana's in the middle of reading the Duke of Kinygent's counterproposal for Iracebeth's punishment when she sees it.

A complicated necklace of clock gears and wires and cuckoo birds.

The handiwork is obvious, only Time could create something so delicate and durable.

Mirana's only too glad to return it to him, she's loathe to continue reading the rather gory fantasy of the duke's.

She'd like Iracebeth's fingers and toes to stay where they are, thank you.

 _On_ her.

As well as her eyes and ears and tongue.

She shudders.

She would never forgive herself if that happened to Iracebeth.

True isolation from the world, even in the midst of it.

A fate worse than death.

It won't happen.

She won't let it.

But she doesn't want to think about it anymore.

She walks to the clock leading to Time's castle resolutely, determined to return his necklace and ignore the duke's demands until she can't anymore.

It's not a waste of Time, just a kind distraction.

* * *

She doesn't mean to sneak up on Time, in fact, she hadn't known it was possible.

In her defense, she did knock.

Twice.

But Time had been busy instructing his Seconds on how to polish the grand clock, rather loudly too.

She'd touched his arm when he'd been shouting to Wilkins, and very nearly been clocked in the face by a startled Time.

Now, she's in his study, sipping dandelion and tiger lily tea, watching him tinker with his returned jewelry.

"Do you mind if I walk about the room?" She asks after her cup had been empty for a long while. "It's so fascinating here."

He nods, too intent on fixing a bent wing to look up, ignoring her pale figure as it drifts around in quiet perusal.

"I don't remember seeing you wear that before," she comments lightly, looking over her shoulder.

He twitches in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable.

"It was to be a gift, before..."

She winces.

Before Iracebeth betrayed him and let the entire world rust.

"Is she—does she—not that I care. Never mind." He fumbles with his words, fumbles with the necklace, gives up and stands by Mirana.

His heart in his eyes as he tries and fails to appear nonchalant.

"Would you like to see my collection of treasures? It's taken me quite some Me to find them all, but now it's quite impressive."

She smiles.

"Nothing sounds lovelier."

She takes his offered arm, gasps as the mahogany doors swing open.

Rows and rows of shelves filled with priceless artifacts, neat and meticulously placed, the private museum enough to make anyone green with envy.

Time starts listing all his favorite pieces, but one thing stands out in particular.

Something that tugs and squeezes Mirana's heart.

It lies broken and rejected on the floor, but even the dust bunnies can't dull its shine.

She kneels, picks it up, holds it in the light.

A filigreed ring with the most delicate little rose she's ever seen adorning the gold band.

Upon closer inspection, she discovers tiny rubies and black diamonds carved into heart shapes, intricately set so the rose twinkles, no matter how dark the day.

It's flawless, regardless of being thrown to the ground, and Mirana finds herself short of breath.

She knows who made it, who slaved over it for too long, as well who it was intended for.

Time pauses his monologue to see what's caught her interest, very nearly _shrieks_ as he tears it from her hand and shoves it deep into his pocket.

It takes him a moment to find his composure before he speaks again.

"I think that's enough for today."

It's quiet and exhausted, she silently allows him to lead her out.

It's a long and awkward walk back, as both try to reign in the words that jump around on their tongues.

Time breaks first.

"Will you—can I—it doesn't matter. I just—it's not important. I've moved on. I don't care. At all. But how is she? Not that I've thought about her. Does she talk about me? Don't answer that. But is she ok? I really don't care."

Mirana stops his jumbled ramble with a kind hand on his arm.

"She is awaiting her sentence at home."

"No trial? Not that I'm interested."

"Too many witnesses to need one, as well as a confession."

"She's confessed everything? I don't want to know. But what is the verdict?"

"Guilty. But we haven't agreed on a...justice yet."

"Will you tell her...well, don't say anything. Thank you for your visit and the return of my treasure. Goodbye."

She squeezes his arm once in farewell, steps past the pendulum.

She shakes her head in sympathy as she closes the door.

If there's one thing Time has _not_ done, it's move on.

* * *

She finds Iracebeth pacing the hallways, two guards several steps behind her, panting from the exertion.

Mirana grins at the sight, Iracebeth has always been a rather fast walker.

But to have made these healthy young men out of breath, she must have been practically sprinting.

"Trying to escape your escorts, Racie?" She asks, dark eyebrows raised in curiosity.

Iracebeth looks back, faint surprise at seeing them, she shrugs.

"Forgot they were here. I just felt like a jog."

"Was that a nice _jog_ , gentlemen?" Mirana teases, they just stand at attention, still clutching at the stitch in their sides.

"Care to walk with me a little longer?"

Iracebeth nods, looping her arm through Mirana's offered elbow.

"So, where have you been hiding? I checked nearly the entire castle, only to have you seemingly gone without a trace. You shouldn't do that, you know," she says, bumping her hip into Mirana's, like she used to when they were little. "People will accuse me of foul play."

"I simply went to visit someone," she says innocently, too innocently. Iracebeth's eyes narrow in suspicion.

"And that was?"

"Time."

Iracebeth immediately drops her arm, as if stung at the mere mention of his name.

"Was it a nice visit?"

The words come out stiffly, jealousy and repressed emotion splayed over her large face before it smooths into some neutral expression Mirana's never seen before.

"Very."

"How did he seem to you? Ridiculous? Like a perfumed clock with legs?"

"Lonely. Seemed to be missing a certain lady."

"Who is the wench?" Iracebeth hisses, face glowing a possessive red.

"Jealous, Racie?" Mirana's lips twist in amusement.

She can't help it, her older sister _likes_ _a_ _boy_.

"'Course not," she sniffs. "Besides, I'd have no right to be, if I was, which I wasn't, and I'm not."

Mirana decides to stop teasing and kisses her soundly on the cheek.

"Well, dear Racie, the wench just so happens to be walking next to me."

She looks around wildly, Mirana giggles at the comical sight, until she gets the hint.

A deep, crimson hue floods her cheeks.

Mirana worries that she's insulted her with the wench thing, until she realizes Iracebeth, the deeply feared bloody red queen, is _blushing_.

"I need to go do something," she manages, squeezes her sister's hand tightly before striding down the hall, some hidden plan hurrying her steps.

The guards sigh as they run after her.

Mirana smiles at the sight, and smiles even wider at the thought of her impatient sister racing to catch up with Time.

What sweet irony.

* * *

It's been a long day.

Replacing the grand clock's shattered glass, erasing the last bits of rust around the castle, installing a few more precautions around the chronosphere.

It's good, hard work, but Time is more than ready to simply have a cuppa, beat Wilkins at chess again, and retire for the night.

"Wilkins! I need tea in the study, and quickly!"

He pushes open the door a bit harder than he'd anticipated, startling the intruder sitting in _his_ chair.

Iracebeth.

Surrounded by the numerous little treasures he'd given her in the past, an elaborate chess set with animated figurines that shuffled nervously about on the board in front of her.

Two guards stand at attention behind her, hands tightly wrapped around the sword handles by their waists.

"Hello, Tick-Tock."

It's a quiet greeting.

She looks up at him with a bashful sort of sheepishness, like a child who knows they've done wrong, and Time's heart ticks a little faster.

"I don't want to see you. I have all the Me left in the world, no thanks to you, and I will not waste even a second of myself listening to you."

She opens her mouth.

"Well, maybe a minute or two." He blurts out, wringing his hands, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the verbal beat down that's sure to come.

When it doesn't, he dares to peek one eye open.

She's staring at him.

Calmly.

Somehow, that makes everything worse.

"Finished?" She asks, he slowly moves to sit opposite her, never breaking her gaze.

"What do you want?" It's tired and wary, her smile of reassurance resembles that of a battered shield against disappointment that is, despite the glue and plaster, slowly crumbling.

"To give back the things I don't deserve, and apologize."

"I don't want to hear your apology."

She shrugs, picks up a chess piece, turns the squirming rook around in her fingers.

"What about chess? Would you play that with me?"

He leans forward, suspicious but intrigued.

"You hate chess. Last time, you knocked the entire thing into the fire."

The aforementioned flames crackle merrily in the hearth, Iracebeth grins at the memory.

"I did. But this time, I've got a better reason to play."

"And that is?"

"One, these chess pieces were made to fight, and two, every time I take one of your pieces, you have to listen to me. Or I ask a question, and you have to answer truthfully."

He ponders over things for a moment, tallying the reasons to play. Iracebeth's always been good at animating things so it would be fun to watch, he's never been good at refusing her, and he really does love chess.

"What's in it for me?"

She bites her lip at that. Obviously she had not thought that far, as it wasn't in her nature to think of others first.

"I suppose the same."

Another moment of thought. He nods once in agreement.

"What do you want if you win?"

"I want you to accept my apologies. You don't have to forgive me, but if I win you have to accept my apology."

"And if I win?"

She smiles in smug confidence.

"What makes you think you'll win?"

He matches her smile, anticipating the challenge. They choose colors, Time with ebony, Iracebeth with red.

Iracebeth's first.

Effortlessly, carelessly, she makes her move.

* * *

"You can't do that!" Time cries out as Iracebeth's knight bashes his bishop to smithereens.

"It's a perfectly legal move," she counters.

"How would _you_ know; you don't even know how to play."

"I don't _like_ to play, that doesn't mean I don't know _how_." He huffs, she grins at the sound. Look who's being childish _now_.

"Although I don't know why I hated this game before, it's like mini war," she muses.

"It calls for patience," he says, glaring at the board as though it's done him a personal wrong.

"I'm getting better at that, a little," she tells him proudly. "When someone's on my nerves, instead of throwing them in the moat, I _imagine_ throwing them in the moat. Only half as satisfying, but if you do it enough times, it works."

The guards behind her roll their eyes. Time nearly jumps, he'd forgotten they were there.

He goes back to ignoring them, choosing to hum noncommittally at her comment.

"Is that what you want to tell me?"

She's pulled from reflection back into the game and the reason for it. Her lips purse, thinking of things to apologize for.

There's just so _much_ , and she's already apologized for half of it.

She'd started with nearly killing him and all of Underland, then using and abusing his kindness, hurting his feelings, yelling at him, yelling at Wilkins, and just for generally being a selfish and petulant child.

Granted, that's what she still is, but she's working on it.

And now there's one question that's been plaguing her since the very beginning. The reason she'd never really felt bad for using him in the first place. And she's going to finally ask.

"Did you love me because you actually liked me, or did you love me because you were lonely?"

The question freezes the hand moving the black pawn.

Then a quick hop and a smash, he takes her rook.

"I could ask you the same thing."

She's quiet for a very long time, something practically unheard of from the loud woman.

He understands what that means.

"You never loved me."

It's not a question.

It doesn't need to be.

"I _liked_ you," she pleads. "I liked what you did for me."

"That's not actually liking _me_."

"But I did. I liked how sweet you were, I liked your ingenuity, I even liked that silly thesaurus you keep in your pocket."

"It's not silly," he says, a bit crossly. "And most of those qualities were for _you_."

She looks down, plays with her ringed fingers.

He thinks of a ring hastily shoved under the pillow hosting a miniature silver horse and sighs.

"It was a bit of both, for me."

She looks up, confused, having already forgotten the question he's answering.

"I liked you, and I was lonely. It's not the worst of combinations," he says defensively.

"You really liked me? Why?"

He gestures to the forgotten chessboard.

"One question."

She quickly demolishes a pawn.

It's his turn to shrug, an impressive show for someone with such large shoulder pads.

"You were brash and strong willed and just so _stubborn_. There was a deep sadness in you, which you denied into rage, but never once did you consider giving up. And you didn't listen to anybody," his mouth twists as he remembers something unpleasant. "I just thought you might listen to me."

"I'm sorry."

It's sincere and there's a genuine _something_ in it.

He just quirks an eyebrow.

She wasn't supposed to apologize until she won another of his pieces.

She at least has the decency to pretend at being contrite for it.

There's only a few moves left, and Time is surprised to find he's disappointed that it will end.

He looks up, remembering their audience.

The guards just look relieved.

His final knight crushes Iracebeth's queen. She utters a cry of dismay, then her brow furrows in concentration as she studies the board, the pink nubbin of her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth as she strategizes her next move.

"Why do you have guards as your shadow?" He asks, as it's his turn to ask a question.

She barely spares them a glance before turning back to her measly army.

"Them? They're here to make sure I don't cause any trouble, or try to implement my _grand_ escape plan," she says sarcastically.

"Do you _have_ a grand escape plan?"

She grins conspiratorially at him.

"Of _course_ not. I'm trying to be a good girl."

He mumbles something unintelligible, and she takes her turn.

Triumphantly, her king crushes his queen. She looks up at him beseechingly.

"Do you think you will ever forgive me?"

"Checkmate."

The game is over.

Time, by sacrificing his queen, won.

Iracebeth tries her best not to look crestfallen.

"Don't cry," he says gently, the gears in his chest grinding together at the sight of her big doe eyes filling.

He _hates_ when she cries.

His hand covers her, almost an apology for winning.

"I'm not," she sniffles. Stands, ready to flee the room.

"Iracebeth," his hand anchors her where she stands. His other hand reaches up, tenderly caresses her large cheek.

"I loved you. Madly, I loved you."

He kisses the palm of her hand.

"You and I, we are more alike than you'd expect. We are both hated for what we are and what we cannot change. Because of that, I turned into a lonely god, who's friend to no man. And you," she winces. "You encased yourself in hate, because it was easier to rage than feel hurt. Then you hurt many others, and you hurt me. And yet I _still_ love you."

He kisses her forehead; she closes her eyes at the affectionate confession.

"But, I also know that we are creatures of habit, and things do not easily change. I'd like to believe you will remain this way and that I can forgive and forget. But I do not forget, and you do not forgive."

"I'm _trying_ ," she whispers.

Time wonders how two little words can hurt so much.

"I believe you, darling. I just need more, well, _me_. It's said I heal all wounds, but first I need to heal myself."

She nods, there are no words left to say.

She steps over the returned gifts, leaves the chess set. The broken pieces are dusting themselves off, reattaching their marble arms, gluing back the splinters of their armor with nary a sign of discomfort.

"Wait," Time says. She turns around.

"I haven't gotten my reward for winning." He says plainly, though the twitch in his mustache gives him away. She walks back to him, a defeated tiredness in her steps.

"What would you like?" She asks, though she doesn't think there's a thing she could possibly give him that he'd actually want.

Pain and murder she could do, anything else is sort of iffy.

"A kiss goodbye?"

She smiles, she can at least do that.

Bittersweet affection keeps her hands soft, even as she tugs him by the collar to be closer to her height.

She kisses him.

Lips meet bigger lips, regrets and apologies and _feelings_ mixing together, along with a tiny bit of saliva.

It's wondrous and different, and he feels full in a way he's never been before.

Time's not one to crave things, but he's sure he will remember and desire the sensation for the rest of his very long life.

All too soon it's gone and she's halfway across the room.

He doesn't think he will ever see her again.

"Fair farren, Iracebeth."

She smiles, tiny and fleeting and hopeful.

"Fair farren, Tick-Tock."

Then she's out the door, and he is left alone.

* * *

It's so late in the night it's the early morning, and she's cold.

Alone, for the first time in weeks.

All it had taken was a poppy puff squished up and blown out, and her guards were sleeping peacefully.

She really _was_ trying to be a good girl, but she's got things she needs to do. Things that don't include guards.

She slips through the halls like a ghost, stopping only once to kiss her sleeping sister's forehead goodbye and slide a note under her pillow, then she's outside and running under the undulating lights of a trillion stars.

She tastes true, uninhibited freedom and laughs, carefree and alive and genuinely happy.

Freedom tastes like blueberries and grass and crisp air.

She could run like this for an eternity.

But she won't.

She's got a responsibility of sacrifice, to her sister, to the kingdom, to the parents who couldn't teach her that responsibility in the first place.

She wants to change, and she wants to be _good_.

She runs, practically flying across the cracked ground, watches how the flowers are starting to peep their heads out from the deep fissures.

She runs and runs and runs until she reaches a brown castle, dull and firm against the dusky sky.

She knocks on the wooden doors, the hard sound reverberating to her very core.

It opens.

A sour-faced young boy stares up at her.

She pushes back her hood, and he squeaks as he registers her head.

"Hello, I'm Iracebeth of Crims. I would like to have a word with the Duke of Kinygent, it seems I owe him a prisoner."


	3. War and Blood and Change

_Warning: this got way darker than the last two chapters. I'm not sure how to rate it, as I don't often write violence. So I'll just say this, there is torture in several scenes and not I'm not quite sure just how graphic it is. Not really gory, I think, but some elements are disturbing. Or maybe it's crap and nothing at all, I really can't tell._

 _Let me know what you think!_

* * *

" _Dear little sister,_

 _"I'm leaving, don't follow me. I don't think you'd like what you'd find. I know you would have found a fix, I'm sure of it, but it would have been temporary and the kingdom needs you._

 _"I'm going to be good, Mirana. I'm going to be good for you._

 _"Love,_

 _"Racie_."

The first thing she does is scream.

Loud and shrill and unending, vision hazy white as panic envelopes her.

She can't have done this.

She just can't.

But she has and it's not fair it's not fair it's not _fair_.

There's flashes of red and a dulled ache in her hands but it doesn't distract from the war raging within the confines of her heaving chest.

Tarrant bursts in, alarmed, startling her from her frenzy.

She breathes hard and heavy, surprised as he at the shattered chairs, torn curtains, and shredded painting of her family.

Their smiles ripped in half, a terrifying caricature of royal perfection.

The ache in her hands sharpen.

Blood.

Dripping, staining her dress. The rubies stark and malevolent against white. The metallic scent fills her senses, tangy and intoxicating.

"My queen, are you alright?" He asks tentatively, and try as she might to calm herself, all that escapes is, "No, I am _not_ alright! She _left_ me. _Again_! She's _always_ doing this, the selfish, absolutely _insane_ —no more!"

She stops, paces back and forth once, stalks past him and down the hall. Gone is the dainty floating, she moves like a tornado, ranting to herself as he hurries to follow.

"I could take it when she locked me places," she tears the red banner Iracebeth liked from the wall, ripping it with her bleeding hands.

"I could take it when she left me in the tulgey woods, when they bit and scratched me to pieces," throws the heavy door to the old and dated armory wide open, never flinching at the loud noise.

"I could even take it when she left me with a kingdom I never asked for and every _slurving_ , _furksome_ responsibility I never _wanted_ ," takes an ax from its brothers on the rack, hacks away at the rectangular box, wood black from age.

"But I will not," _wack_!

"Let her," _thwack_!

"Die!" The wood splinters.

"And leave me," she pulls at the hole with all her might, ignoring how the jagged pieces tear into her paper skin.

"All _alone_ ," it falls apart. " _Again_!"

Tarrant sees what she's found, pales a shade whiter than he's ever been, even on the brink of death.

A twisted sword, dark and deadly sharp and made specifically for one pacifist queen.

It gleams poisonous with memory, with violence, with _promise_.

He's seen it in action before, doesn't want to ever again.

"Mirana," he says firmly, taking her by the shoulders to stare into her fierce vacancy. Shakes her, a bit hard.

" _Mirana_." Tries to shake the madness out of her.

"Everyone leaves me."

Raged grief shines in her wild eyes.

Too late to pull her from the edge, she's already fallen.

"Never again."

He tries to piece together her jumbled words, make sense of her dark ire.

"Mirana, what is going on?"

She strips, ignoring his blushing yelp, puts on the tarnished armor she hasn't worn in years.

"Iracebeth has decided to surrender herself to the Duke of Kinygent, the impetuous _idiot_. She's never martyred herself before, why should she start now?"

He flusters as she finishes, tries and fails to steer her from the stables.

Tries to stop her from saddling her horse. His last resort stepping in front of her and her mount.

"But Mirana, she's trying to do something _good_. Shouldn't we let her?"

She gives him a look that says nothing good will be happening anytime soon.

"Good be _damned_. _Everything_ else be damned, including my vows. I don't care, I'm going to get my sister back."

* * *

This might not have been her smartest idea.

It's cold, the damp stone blocks out the afternoon sun. A fire crackles somewhere, distant, yet filling her ears.

She can't see much.

She _can_ see the hooks, clanking and ominous above her. Feels the straps around her wrists, ankles, around her middle. The heavy dress and corset gone, she shivers in a white shift.

White. She still hates the color.

"It's to see if monsters like you can bleed," a low voice says, answering the unspoken question.

She tries to speak; dizziness tilts the world off kilter.

She grunts as she weakly tugs at her bindings, her limbs barely move.

"No need for such fuss, Iracebeth. I need you awake and docile. How are we going to get anywhere if you keep trying to leave?"

She remembers in flashes.

 _Guards seizing her._

 _In panic, fighting back._

 _Something sharp, piercing her arm._

 _Cold flooding her system._

 _Darkness_.

"Do you remember my wife, Iracebeth?"

She tries to scream against his disrespect. She might be a prisoner, but she is _royalty_ , and he has no right to her first name. All that slips past her lips is a struggling moan.

"She was a beacon of everything good and pure in me. And so very beautiful."

He brushes a fiery curl off her forehead, the gentle touch more foreboding than a slap.

"And you cut her down, like a common weed. Never stopping, never caring. Never listening to the shrieks you left behind."

She wets her lips, fuzziness drying her tongue.

Her mind whirls.

She knows what's coming next, knows it with easy familiarity.

After all, a torturer knows what another torturer intends.

Sweetness comes only before torment.

She increases her struggle, breath huffing as he turns from her.

She knows what that fire is for now.

Mewls in frustration, her body nearly paralyzed in its dull alertness.

Coals are turned, the heating poker whispering ugly caresses.

"What—what do you want from me?" She manages, knows it's a stupid question.

There's only one answer. She knows the answer too, still needs to ask.

He turns to her, she sees the mad fury, the lust for vengeance, the clenched poker red and glowing.

He's chuckling.

"You know the answer to that, Racie."

Tenderness in the nickname.

For once, she's scared.

"I want you to scream."

He lunges.

She screams.

* * *

Mirana's horse thunders over cracked ground, infant flowers crushed under the mighty hooves. Another, slower horse chases after the white speeding streak.

Mirana ignores the Hatter's cries for pause. The madness has ebbed, but years of repressed _everything_ has been unleashed, the flood gates now wide open with no intention of closing.

She can hear the little flowers groaning, knows the damage she's causing to their young stalks and petals through the magic flowing in her veins, only feels a satisfaction that both sickens and elates.

Remembers the same feeling from many years ago.

 _Iracebeth had locked her in a tiny closet for hours, ignored her pleas for release. Her hands had bruised from banging against the door repeatedly. When she had finally escaped from the never ending darkness, she had rushed to their room, picked up Iracebeth's impressive ant farm and hurled it out the window._

 _The glass had shattered against the cobblestones, sand scattering at the impact. She had known most of the ants couldn't survive the fall, hadn't cared._

 _Iracebeth had found out later, slapped her smartly across the face and locked her somewhere else. She hadn't cared about that either._

 _Cheek stinging, she'd hunkered in the dark and replayed the sight of the smashing glass over and over in her head._

The sweet taste of retribution and fear of self, she'd discovered both that day.

She'd done it again and again, been hurt, retaliated in kind, been hurt again, till it had become a vicious cycle.

She thought it had stopped years ago. Apparently not.

So many caught in the crossfire. Her heart both weeps and feels nothing.

But such is war and family.

"My queen, what are we doing here?" Tarrant asks, confused, pulling Mirana from her thoughts.

They've stopped in front of a cave, sluggish clouds of smoke puffing from the den's entrance, blue and languid tendrils floating in and out of existence.

Chessur's home, or as close to it as it comes.

"Chess!" She calls out, all the dark energy accumulated from the ride evaporating like wispy smoke and converting into worry.

"Your majesty," he appears, smiling wide and slow, tail twitching sardonically.

"Always a pleasure. Tarrant, welcome. Something I can do for you? Some nibbles, perhaps a snuff of catnip?" He asks lazily, evidence around his whiskers that he's already had a leaf or two.

"I need you go to the Duke of Kinygent's castle and find whether or not Iracebeth is alive."

"Beg pardon?" He asks, head cocked to the side at the sudden tension.

"No time for questions. Just—hurry. Please."

He disappears.

She turns to Tarrant, satisfied and yet apprehensive.

"This was Iracebeth's choice," he says softly. "If you attack the Duke, you invite a war."

"You can either stay and help me or you can stay clear away, but nothing will stop me from taking my sister back."

Chin up as she expects him to walk, he just smiles.

"If you thought I wouldn't follow you anywhere, you've known the wrong Hatter."

Her smile is relief and surprise, she simply nods and hops back on her horse. He follows suit, and they plod a slightly slower trot back to her castle.

"Why do you need Chess as a scout? You know where Iracebeth is." Tarrant asks, staring at her profile.

She stares straight ahead, calculating malice scrawled across her face.

"Because," her voice suddenly cold.

"I need to know if there's anything to save before I raze that miserable city to the ground."

* * *

She's floating.

Her mind drifts violently, tossing her from various realities.

Sometimes she's walking down a narrow road alone, sometimes in a drab world where woman speak quietly and men sit stiffly, sometimes she writhes in flames that tickle mercilessly.

She's young and sitting in her favorite library nook, Mirana nestled in her side as she reads a novel aloud, the little girl proud when she says she has the best big sister ever.

She's in a field of flowers, tearing off the screaming heads, tears streaming as they call her witch.

She's kissing Time, all hot and bothered as he mutters beauty into her skin, lips all consuming.

She's in his Ocean, drowning in memories as he watches from above, bored indifference turning his gaze cold.

She's under the blue sky, looking up at shining silver, the grinning ax ready to descend upon her neck.

Always, no matter the vision, she hears faint moans and grunts of pain that sound eerily familiar.

She wishes it'd stop, it distracts her.

" _Won't you eat this bread-and-butter-fly, Mirana?" She asks sweetly. She's back in her eight-year-old body, staring down at her sister, her living little dolly._

 _"Don't want to. It looks icky." The pale child says, eyeing the insect warily._

 _"Nonsense. They wouldn't name it bread-and-butter-fly if it didn't taste like it."_

 _Still Mirana shakes her head, Iracebeth stomps her foot._

 _"Eat it._ Now _."_

 _She opens her mouth to protest, it's a poor choice of action. Iracebeth shoves it past the pink lips. Then the small princess is shrieking and scrunching her delicate features at the horrid taste, Iracebeth laughs until her face turns red_.

She's back in the cold room, trembling in shock.

Something's dripping.

She realizes it's her.

"Welcome back, Racie," her sister stands above her, speaking with the Duke's low voice.

"I was afraid you'd died for a second, and that would have been terrible."

"No," is all she manages to croak out, disagreeing.

Dying would be a mercy.

"I beg to differ," Mirana's image wavers between the angelic features to the Duke's long face, disorienting Iracebeth further.

"If you'd died, I'd stop having fun. And you still have so much to pay for."

She wants to spit at the changing face, to roll her eyes in spite, to stand tall and proud against his wrath.

Mostly, she wants to dream again, away from this place.

Her eyelids flutter closed, she gets smacked.

Hard.

She yelps as her lip splits open for the second time.

"Hush now. I need you awake for this next little game. I think you'll find it amusing, the parallels between these little beauties and your magnificent greed. They don't stop until they're forced to; sound familiar?"

He holds a jar above her face. Thin, slimy things wriggle around before her ever widening eyes.

Toothed momewraiths. Vile creatures that slither under the skin, munching on flesh without the slightest hint of anesthetic.

She'd never used them before, though she'd considered it.

"I would've liked you," she wheezes. "Back then."

The thought wounds her more than it does the Mirana-like demon in front of her.

" _Back then_ I was a fine, upstanding citizen who wouldn't dream of hurting anyone." She—he—it snarls. "Now, now I'm a monster of your creation."

"No," she whispers, revelation bursting through the haze of fear and pain.

"Monsters create themselves. Unfortunate circumstances nudge us along, but we control our hands."

Her broken and scorched ribs ache at the use of oxygen, but she feels free.

Released in a way even dreaming could not do.

She finally, truly, completely forgives her sister.

It was never Mirana's fault in the first place.

Unfortunate circumstance led Iracebeth to hard places, but she destroyed herself.

She alone is to blame.

And she alone is to suffer the consequences.

But _god_ , what consequences.

Mirana scowls, flickers into the Duke, back into Mirana.

Iracebeth watches as fear-filled hallucinations emerge into this reality. Butterflies flit above the rafters of the ceiling, monocle-owls watch the gruesome scene in mild curiosity.

Iracebeth imagines a blue cat tail swishing in distaste, a mouth made for grinning twisted into a deep frown.

"Alright, Racie," Mirana says in that rough voice. "Eat up."

A hand pinches her nose, too tight.

 _Too tight!_

She tries to black out but her self-preservation betrays her, mouth opening to suck in a breath.

She sucks in worms.

Then she's screaming and screaming and _screaming_ because there's something in her body, foreign and intimate and _chewing_ —

There's no drifting, no floating into oblivion, no escape.

Just worms, and a laughing little sister who sounds like a cackling, deranged man.

* * *

She and Tarrant are readying the Bandersnatch, armored to his very tail, when Chessur appears, looking disturbed. It's something Mirana's never seen before.

"You need to save Iracebeth as soon as you can," he says urgently, his usually lazy drawl clipped short.

"She's alive?" Relief floods her being, then worry as she catches the tone in his voice.

He just nods, kneads his paws together anxiously.

"Chess, what is it?" Tarrant asks.

The cat fidgets, ears drooping, watches Mirana's expression nervously.

"Let's just say the Duke is a rather... _Unsavory_ fellow, and I do not wish even the bloody red queen to be in his clutches."

As he'd feared, she darkens.

"Let's go."

"We're not ready," Tarrant protests.

She jumps atop the Bandersnatch, barely waits for him to tentatively climb up behind her before they're up and sprinting.

* * *

The ride to Kinygent takes too long.

With every stride, Mirana envisions a different scenario with Iracebeth starring in each bloody role.

Chessur had been too vague, Mirana envisions Iracebeth limbless, sightless, cut off from the world the way the Duke had initially demanded.

And then she imagines worse.

Rage floods her body once again. When they reach the castle's gate, she charges through, ignoring the shouts of the keepers.

They reach the market square, she climbs off the Bandersnatch, only to pull herself on top of the town's fountain.

She raises her arms, magic enhancing her voice so everyone, even those hidden inside stone buildings can hear her command.

"People of Kinygent, I am your queen, the one you have openly _defied_. You have held my sister, Iracebeth of Crims, from me and have _tortured_ her."

A powerful gust of wind hits the market, knocking over everything in its way, a testament to her mighty anger.

"I will give you one chance to leave and seek refuge elsewhere, but mark my words, any who stands in my way will be _slaughtered_."

Chaos ensues.

As people run, belongings slipping in their panicked grasps, Mirana makes her way to the castle, hatter, Bandersnatch, and Cheshire following behind her.

Heavy oak blocks the entrance, doors meant to intimidate and seem impenetrable.

Mirana lays her hand on it, sets the twenty foot doors ablaze. White fire licks at dry wood, leaves only ash as it leaps to stone.

She strides through, shoulders set, purpose in her steps.

Guards rush her with war cries, swords swinging.

No match to the irate monarch.

In less than a minute, her twisted sword guts them, the ringing of steel beautiful and ugly and violent.

She takes the steps two at a time, burning, with intent to kill.

She's not innocent, not as pure or clean as she'd once pretended, for once she doesn't care.

And it's oh so liberating.

* * *

She searches every room, increasingly alarmed as Iracebeth eludes rescue.

Foolish guards keep attacking, only to meet the same end as the first two.

Tomorrow, she will probably regret the carnage.

Today, she will rip apart every wall until she finds Iracebeth.

Tarrant shouts for her, a hidden staircase inside a fireplace. She races up the stones, almost fearing what she'll find.

The first thing she registers is darkness, then a smoldering fire, then a tiny figure with a rather large head lying limp, strapped to a wooden table.

She cries out in distress, tearing across the room to reach Iracebeth's side, assesses the damage.

The red stained woman is barely conscious.

White shift burnt in multiple places, sliced and bleeding in several others, bruises are scattered across the deathly pale skin. Blue, vein-like tracks travel all over her damaged skin, swollen and irritated from trauma.

Unfamiliar marks, Mirana wonders what could have made such a destructive path, even down to the soles of Iracebeth's feet.

She sees the jar of momewraiths, dropped and broken on the ground, the squirming nasties mostly squished and all gasping last breaths.

Then two hands are wrapped around her neck, squeezing with an iron grip.

She struggles, then goes limp. Her attacker assumes her defeated, loosens the slightest bit, enough for her to thrust an armored elbow into a soft gut.

She quickly turns to face him, the Duke of Kinygent of course, reaches for her sword.

It's not there, been swept across the room.

She pulls a dagger from her waist belt, he grabs a throbbing poker from the fire's embers.

"Your highness," he says, insolence dripping from his every pore.

"Scum," she hisses, lunging for him.

He avoids the swipe of the dagger; she bats away his advancing poker.

"Did you enjoy my artwork? She's not finished yet, but there's potential for greatness," he says, mockery heavy as he pretends his attack is effortless.

She screeches in rage, viciously rips the poker out of his surprised grasp. Suddenly close, she pushes herself above him, wraps a leg around his neck, uses his momentum and gravity to send him crashing to the ground. Dagger high and poised, ready to stab out his heart.

"Miri, don't." A weak voice gasps out.

She whips her head to the left, Iracebeth stares back at her from where she's strapped, nearly lucid and clearly in great pain.

The Duke moves underneath Mirana, she thrusts the dagger into his shoulder. He howls and stays still.

"Don't kill him," Iracebeth says with effort. She gapes.

" _You're_ the one who told me to kill him in the first place!"

"And you're actually going to listen to me?" Sarcasm makes her cough, weakens Mirana's resolve, till the Duke moves again.

She raises the dagger high.

"He deserves to die."

"We all do. Even you, and especially me."

Mirana stares at her older sister, sees an internal change in those bruised eyes.

"Monsters create themselves." Iracebeth whispers, and Mirana understands.

Knows Iracebeth's realization, knows she's been absolved, knows she's at a defining point herself.

For so long she's fought hard against the darkness, it's an inviting temptress, but to give up to it now, it's not in her spirit.

She sighs, deep and long.

"You won't die today, pig." She tells the Duke. Relief paints his features grey.

Then she slices his cheek. He hisses in pain.

"That was for trying to usurp me," she says, and slices his other cheek.

"That was for hurting my sister."

Finally, she cuts his forehead.

"And that's a warning. Stay where I put you and _rot_. Anything else and I will come after you, and no one will try to save your miserable soul again."

She grabs a chain from the wall, doesn't think about what he used it for as she ties him up.

She looks up, sees Tarrant hovering next to her, the twisted sword in his hands and trained on the subdued Duke.

"How long have you been here?" She asks, rolling off the bleeding man.

"The whole time, my queen," he says. "But it seemed you didn't need me, and I didn't think it wise to interrupt."

She smiles at that and he smiles back, but then his gaze hardens as he looks to the table.

"I believe your sister needs serious medical attention."

She rushes back to her sister's side, gently cutting the straps away from the broken form.

Iracebeth's gaze no longer as coherent as before, she looks at Mirana as though she's a dream, a mirage.

"You're not really here," she whispers confidentially. "I bet you're _him_ , aren't you? Please, no more worms."

Such soft, weak words.

Each a dagger to Mirana's tattered heart.

"No worms, I promise," she says, heart in her throat as she takes in all the damage done. Even with her advanced magic abilities, it will be a long time till Iracebeth recovers.

Still, her sister beams, childlike and vacant. As quickly as the beatific smile appears, it's replaced with a sulky pout.

"I want my sister," she mutters. "Have to tell her something."

Mirana bends down, arms propped on the table next to her, anxiously waiting for Tarrant to come back from taking the prisoner to Chessur and help her pick up Iracebeth.

"Why don't you tell me? I promise to pass it on," she says, desperate to keep those fluttering eyes open.

"I love her. She's a good sister and a better queen than me."

Mirana smiles. Iracebeth has never said that to her, ever.

Then, she frowns.

Iracebeth's eyes are closed. They don't open again.

"Racie?"

She jostles her, lightly, mindful of her injuries.

"Racie!"

She shakes her harder.

The former queen has slipped deep into dreams and doesn't wake.

Mirana sobs once, twice.

Hands glow a green light, white too, healing magic.

She prays to fate for this one kindness, she deserves it.

Hands to Iracebeth's temple, she pours everything she has into the spell.

Anger, vengeance, regret, terror, sorrow, redemption, forgiveness, love, affection, hope.

She gives it all, and prays for those eyes to open again.

* * *

When she wakes, Time is by her side, her hand resting gently in his.

"Am I dead?" She asks, her voice a hoarse croak. His is soft and tender.

"No, liebling." He kisses her hand.

It hurts, but she's missed being kissed so much, she doesn't dare say it. Unfortunately, her flinch gives her away.

He murmurs apologies, sorrow heavy in his eyes. She squeezes his hand weakly and lets her eyes fall shut again.

Dreamless, she sleeps.

* * *

Later, when she forces her eyes open again, Time is still there, tinkering with a broken little cuckoo bird. He immediately drops it as he sees her move, helps her sit up.

Bringing her water, he forces her to drink slower, little sips instead of gulps.

Satisfied, she settles back into the soft pillows. Finally notices where she is, _who_ she's with.

"Why am I here?" She asks bluntly, the rasp in her wounded windpipe softening the sharp words.

"Exiled again, I think," he says carefully.

Wilkins hesitantly enters the room, a tray with broth and soft bread balanced in his arms.

Time takes the bread, breaks it into little pieces, feeds bites to her slowly.

"The kingdom is in a bit of havoc," he continues. "The Duke," he growls out the name, "is sentenced to rot in prison."

He spoons a bit of soup in her waiting mouth. She mumbles her thanks.

"Mirana will be visiting us soon, to go over some things with you."

"Us?" She asks, faded eyebrow raising. "Am I to stay here then?"

He blushes, pink to red, gawks at his slip of tongue.

"That's not—I mean—you don't have to live here if you wish to live somewhere else—I only thought—"

She takes his hand, effectively shushing him.

"I like us."

It's as sweet and playful as she can manage, which isn't much, but it's enough. He smiles and looks down at their intertwined fingers.

"Do you still need more You?" She asks, voice wavering in and out.

He nods, but doesn't let go of her fragile hand.

"We both do, meine lieber."

He watches her expression fitfully, expecting shouts and sulking, or at the very least a pout.

All she manages is a watery, exhausted half-smile.

"Ok."

He stares at her intently, she blushes self-consciously, knowing the many bruises that dot her face and the future scars she's sure she'll carry forever.

"You've changed," he says thoughtfully.

"Still am."

He shakes his head, smiling slightly.

"I know you are on the inside, schatz. However," he walks to the mirror on his wall, picks it up, places it in front of her. "On the outside, you've changed quite a bit."

She doesn't want to look, she knows what she'll see, and she's been tortured enough.

"Schön, look."

Such kindness in his voice, she braves a peek.

She gasps.

Her head has shrunk. Sits lightly on her shoulders, for once matching her tiny frame.

Hair fallen from its usual tight heart-shape, it falls loosely around her shoulders. Face scrubbed clean, bruises faded.

She looks _normal_.

She cries.

Hiccups between sobs of relief and former terror and enormous gratitude.

Time, worried he's upset her, takes the mirror away, holds her hand again in apology. She grips it tightly.

"Liebling, are you alright?"

"Better than alright," she gasps out. "Much better."

Her smile fills his heart.

She's exhausted, different, and wounded in so many more ways than one, but she's smiling at him and it's like watching a phoenix's rebirth, glorious and captivating.

"I'm good, Tick-Tock. I'm _good_."

* * *

 _And there you have it! There's probably an epilogue chapter coming up, but after that I think this story will be done._

 _Thanks for reading!_


	4. Trailing Off The Path

_Hi everyone! Here we are, at the end. Thank you for reading along, and for all your lovely reviews, they've made me incredibly happy, and I'm so grateful. I hope to see you all soon, whether it's in another fic of mine, or one of yours! Fair farren._

 _Enjoy._

* * *

She's dreaming.

Oceans of cream paper and pods of wax-seals and a multi-headed squid that keeps asking for her to sign on the dotted line.

She's trying, really she is, but at the end of the line there's a crown-shaped hook and she keeps stabbing her own fingers.

Drops of ink flow from the delicate skin, swell on the written seas, swallows the world.

She's floating in black.

Not floating.

Falling.

Fast and hard and the wind cuts at her cheeks as it whistles past.

She passes her council as she hurtles down, the round table all cold stares until they crumble and blow away like disapproving sand. They're replaced by the Duke, cheeks bleeding and dripping upwards, then shackles appear around his wrists, pulling him up and away from the end.

It comes slowly, but sharply.

Twisted spikes, whispering blades, twinkling dangerously.

All pointed at her.

Bones looking too much like her own litter the ground underneath.

Silent and stiff against the imminent stop, she falls onto her own sword.

It's not supposed to hurt in sleep.

It does anyway.

She struggles to wake and feels herself die.

 _She's dreaming._

 _Oceans of cream paper and pods of wax-seals and a multi-headed squid that keeps asking for her to sign on the dotted line._

 _She's trying, really she is_ —

"Your highness?"

Her eyes fly open.

Blood-like ink flashes past her eyes, glinting swords and crowns, then it's gone and all she's left with is a vague sense of dread.

"My queen?" The voice tries again, muffled through the door.

"Yes, come in."

She pushes herself up on trembling arms, smooths the bedsheets, swipes at her leaking eyes.

"I'm awfully sorry to wake you," the waifish lady's maid mutters, eyes respectfully lowered. "But there's a... erm, _guest_ in the garden who refuses to leave until you come down."

Mirana sighs.

It's not the first time a subject's demanded her presence, but the number of entitled citizens had greatly lowered since the Duke of Kinygent's downfall.

Mirana would never admit it aloud, but she rather enjoys the newfound fear. At the very least, she appreciates the respect.

"I'm sure it's been terribly inconvenient, but could they not wait there until the morning? I've heard the grass is quite comfortable."

"About that..." The girl chews on her lower lip.

"It's just—you see—well, she's painting the roses red."

* * *

"That is a highly inefficient way to redecorate."

Mirana's intruder doesn't so much as pause, her paint brush raised high and shaking ever so slightly down the white petals. Crimson drips indifferently.

"I was bored; took a stroll. Your hedges are in need of trimming."

"In the middle of the night?"

Shoulders shrug.

"Whatever the time, it needs to be done."

"Racie, why are you here?"

She finally turns, stands small and irate in a dress simpler than usual. Her head a normal size, age old scars faint against her vibrant hairline.

"Are you rejecting my company?" Words accusing, the tone too frayed to hold any sort of true malice.

"I'm merely concerned," she says softly.

Though Iracebeth pretends otherwise, Mirana knows she is still fragile, so she handles Racie the way she always has.

Delicately.

"No need for that. I just came for distraction, until your servants started making a fuss," Iracebeth mutters the last bit.

"Why did you want a distraction?" She asks, Racie's sigh is colored in irritation.

"Have you discussed the plans for Kinygent with the council yet?" She asks, changing the subject.

"Tomorrow afternoon," Mirana replies.

It's been nearly a month since the fall.

Iracebeth's been pardoned on the condition that she does not live in the queendom and does not visit often. She's kept to it rather well, but it does not keep Mirana from visiting _her_. The visits are not always the most pleasant, but they all have purpose.

Though there were many negative adjectives spoken of Iracebeth's reign, incompetency was never one of them, and Mirana's found her advice on settling disputes and other tasks most helpful.

"Don't forget to remind them it's more profitable to keep the castle under one name than to divvy it up between them, the greedy—"

"I know, Racie. You still haven't answered my question."

"Then it must not have been very important."

"Why do you need a distraction?"

"You're such a—" she stops, painting the reddening rose a bit too harshly. A white petal breaks, the torn edge starting to brown an ugly bruise. The trembling hand holding the brush drops to her side.

Chocolate eyes turn to the sky, Iracebeth counts the seconds as if she was counting the stars, cataloguing them in her mind.

It's technique to calm her, keep her head cool.

She often has to count a very long time.

"I can't be distracted if you keep asking what I need to be distracted from, Mirana," she says finally, the warning's bite is soft.

"Maybe it'd be more helpful if you talked about it with me?"

"It wouldn't," Iracebeth says stiffly.

"Can't you just try?" She pleads.

She knows what Racie wants distraction from, knows distraction only works for a little while.

Avoidance turns to ruination quickly. They've tried that road several times before, Mirana would like to break the habit.

"Can't _you_ just leave well enough alone?"

Iracebeth glares daggers that glint silver like a forgotten dream, but Mirana doesn't back down.

"I'm trying to help you."

"That's all good and well, but I never asked—" she stops.

Screams.

Slaps a hand over her mouth, falling to the ground in her haste to scramble away.

Mirana races to her side, dagger that she keeps with her now at all times out and ready, eyes darting about in search of threat.

The threat is revealed to be a worm, resting on a lower rose. It has no teeth, but Mirana is alarmed all the same.

Dagger slipped back under her skirts, she kneels down beside her sister, far enough to give comfort without fear of panicked backlash.

Iracebeth's shoulders heave silently, hand still tightly protecting her mouth, her other hand clutching at her knees, eyes wide in terror and memory.

"Sister," Mirana says quietly, firmly. Petrified eyes flick to hers, dart away, afraid of illusion. "Sister, look around you. Notice what's real."

Quick glances. Dripping flowers. Grass under her un-shackled feet. A sister that does not waver or flicker into someone else beside her. No glitching butterflies or owls or cats in the air around her.

She's real, and the garden is real, and her sister is real.

For now.

"Thank you," she mutters, uncurls just slightly, hand slowly lowering from its death grip on her jaw.

Mirana smiles a bit kindly, a bit sadly.

"Why don't we go to the kitchen and have a cup of tea?"

* * *

The world seems much cheerier behind a steaming teacup.

At least, Mirana hopes so.

Iracebeth hasn't said a word, but she sips her dark tea without complaint.

Silence hovers between them like smoke and Mirana can taste it with every inhale.

She coughs.

"I didn't want to sleep anymore," Iracebeth blurts out, scowling deeply into her cup.

Mirana hums noncommittally, a bit deeper when she realizes Racie's statement is an answer.

"Why?"

"You know very well why," she says quickly, eyes closed, willing her weakness to stay hidden.

Mirana knows why, of course.

Suffers many a nightmare herself, though her mind has the kindness to forget most of them.

However, she knows Iracebeth's vivid memory hoards nightmares like a miser.

"So you came to me?" Warmth seeps through her tone though she knows it could be misconstrued as glee.

She can't help it, Racie's starting to seek her out and it's been hard-earned progress.

"I would have taken a long run instead, but—" Iracebeth winces at almost giving herself away. Mirana catches it regardless.

"But?"

"Never mind, it doesn't matter."

"Then tell me, if it doesn't matter."

A heaved sigh, agitated fingers tapping on the marble counter.

"Myfeethurt." She mumbles, gulps the last of the piping hot liquid down in one go.

Her wounds are closed and healing, but there are aches deep within her bones that linger.

With a dismayed gasp, Mirana hops up from her chair and flees to the kitchen. Returns a minute later, a green vial pulsing in her hands.

"You should have told me sooner," she chastises, forcing Iracebeth's thin, resisting fingers to grasp it.

Her gaze speaks plainly, with no room for argument.

Take the damn potion.

Iracebeth does so reluctantly, lips pouting at the too-sweet taste. Then a dull numbness settles over her, she sighs in relief.

The initial reprieve often leaves her soft and calm, she's usually more forthcoming in conversation and sentiment.

Mirana has come to appreciate these short moments immensely.

"How is Time?" She asks, Iracebeth shrugs in decided nonchalance. Or perhaps it's from the potion flushed in her system.

"I wouldn't know; I don't see him very often."

She grimaces at Mirana's surprise.

"I've been trying to give him distance."

"How lonely."

She scowls, Mirana plucked at a nerve she tries very hard to ignore.

"I do not need your commentary on my life, _little sister_. Perhaps you should find one of your own before poking at mine."

Accidental strike met with an intentional one, Mirana retreats.

Smiles in apology, it twists halfway in suppressed hurt.

"I didn't mean it like that," she mutters.

Mirana's smile continues.

"Yes you did."

She stands, Iracebeth flinches as the pale material of her dress rustles.

"But you can make it up to me later. Right now, we both need rest."

Reaches out for Iracebeth's hand, to help her up.

To battle the loneliness together.

Iracebeth sighs, but grabs her offering.

Squeezes back a tiny bit.

It's little, but it's enough.

* * *

It's dark under the sheets.

She can hear her sister's soft breath beside her. Doesn't look over, but she knows the picture Mirana makes.

Hair perfectly fallen behind her on the pillow, a delicate hand underneath her sloped cheek, pretty little eyelashes fluttering once or twice as sleep continues to elude her.

"Racie?" Her voice is soft, tentative, the slightest bit scared.

Perhaps it's from the potion still lingering in her veins, or the exhaustion dulling her aversion to vulnerabilities, or the guilt of years lost to anger, but it gives Iracebeth pause.

No sigh of irritation, no brushing off emotion.

She holds Mirana's free hand and replies quietly.

"I'm here, Miri."

"I have confession. When the Duke had you in his repulsive clutches, I killed. I crushed everyone in my way, and I _enjoyed_ it. It was exhilarating, intoxicating...addicting. I broke my vows, and I _didn't care_. I wanted to do it again and again.

"Am I a monster?"

Iracebeth's heart clenches. It reminds her of the first time she ordered an execution.

The man had attempted to poison her.

She'd seen his fear as his head rested on the block. Felt his life snap off.

She'd morphed into a goddess, a raging, terrible goddess who could take life as easily as snapping her fingers. Such power gained in less than an hour.

It was glorious.

And then there came guilt.

Crushing, coating her soul like oil.

It must be the same now, for Mirana. Maybe even worse for her sister, for fighting's much more personal and jarring than execution.

She knows what to say to comfort, tweaks it a bit.

"You are not, Mirana. You did what was necessary. It may become necessary in the future, and you will have to do it again," here, she changes what she used to tell herself. "But don't become used to it. Don't let yourself be numbed. That is the difference. Lose your guilt, but keep the regret."

She turns her head, watches a tear escape from her sister's anguish.

Lightly pats the shoulder that trembles.

"And... Thank you," she says, feeling the gratitude seeped through her every bone.

For saving her, for what it cost, for taking the damage.

She doesn't say it, doesn't know quite how, but she does know Mirana understands.

"Distract me?" Mirana asks, a bit of teasing colors her voice. Desperation too.

"I don't have any stories."

"Tell me about Time's castle."

"It's big."

She snorts delicately at the reticence. Iracebeth huffs, but elaborates.

"And cold. And there's a constant tick that's really a tock in its grandeur. At night the stars dance a waltz so vibrant, you fear they'll sweep you up to join them."

Mirana hums over the new information, nods slightly in satisfaction at the imagery.

"What about Time's Seconds?"

"Little idiots."

It's quiet for a while, Iracebeth knows the question Mirana wants to ask next.

Miri doesn't ask it; she doesn't answer.

Then—

"And Time?"

Silence, for a long moment.

"He remains."

"You don't talk?"

"No. Distance, remember?"

"Why must there be such distance?"

"Because—" she bites her lips; darkness replaces sight as she steels herself from the answer. "Because the sight of me still causes him a great deal of pain."

She knows he loves her, but he can't forgive her yet, and it's hard to get over someone he sees every day.

She feels the hand in hers squeeze tighter, it comforts her enough to relinquish the blackness. Mirana's ceiling greets her, swirls of paleness that reflect light like the moon.

It's not at all like the ceilings in Time's palace, and the contrast eases the clenching of her jaw.

"Will you stay with him?"

She shrugs, the thought of permanent absence hadn't even crossed her mind.

"Where else am I to go?"

Despite her best efforts to separate and stop, her heart now thumps to the ticking of one clocked man.

She's found her home, and there's an Us stored somewhere in the future.

She won't take it into her own hands this time, she knows better now.

She can wait a little longer.

* * *

Mirana wakes from dreamless sleep to find herself alone.

Silently, in bare feet, she drifts through the slowly stirring palace. Servants bow as she passes, eyes downcast as they hurry past and out of their queen's way.

She sighs, allows them their distance.

She searches the kitchen, Iracebeth's not there. Nor the still dripping garden. Not even in the library. Mirana's about to turn back, she's got a meeting with the counsel soon, but then she hears a crash and a shout from the courtyard.

Oh dear.

Hurries a step or two faster, arrives onto quite the scene.

Marble statues taller than her have left their posts, animated and intent to play a macro game of chess.

Children and adults alike stand in rapt attention, wonder-filled eyes on the seemingly possessed knights.

Iracebeth stands in the corner, a peaceful sort of concentration settled over her features.

The game continues, entertaining in the intricate dance of strategy and war.

Applause rings at the close, game won, White King toppled.

Mirana smiles as she approaches her similarly grinning sister.

"How's _that_ for distraction?" Iracebeth asks, exhilaration from the magic still coursing through her veins and leaving her quite satisfied.

"It was marvelous. I'd love to see it again, sometime."

"Next time, you'll play the other side."

Mirana wrinkles her nose, she'd lose in that suggested next time. Iracebeth knows it too, her grin turns smug.

Mirana's about to ask her to join her for the meeting and then a late lunch, but a little girl bounces up to the two sisters, capturing their attention completely.

She curtsies first, wobbles forward, smiles wide as she stands straight, grin sweetened by the lack of a front tooth.

"Highnesses," she says, completely at ease and seemingly unaware of the gaping courtyard. "That was very...spec-specataculer."

Mirana smiles down at her.

"I'm afraid the credit must wholly go to Iracebeth."

The girl looks up, appraises them both, nods in satisfaction. Looks up at the slightly blushing ex-monarch beseechingly.

"My mama said you, um, aminated those statues to play. Could you please aminate _my_ chess set? Papa said I should learn it, but it's not half as fun as your game. Please?"

A pause. Iracebeth tries to grasp the words to deny her absurd request.

All that comes out is, "I suppose I could."

The tiny moppet squeals happily and decidedly latches onto her hand, Mirana stifles a laugh at Iracebeth's baffled eyes.

"Will you stay a little while longer?" She asks, not wanting her to leave while knowing she must eventually.

But the inevitable separation does not have to come so soon.

Iracebeth nods, so much hope in one tiny twist of the lips.

"I suppose I could."

* * *

Something is wrong. He knows it, but he can't quite pinpoint the feeling of error.

No pocket watch has stopped, no soldier has fallen, no tick has stopped before its following tock.

So what's amiss?

He takes a break from the Grand Clock, ignores his Seconds' sighs of relief and Wilkins insistence for his rest.

Time doesn't need rests. Unless there's a piano involved.

He paces through his him-shaped corridors, nearly falls over as he realizes the mistake in his realm.

Iracebeth is gone.

He doesn't know how long.

He hadn't even noticed.

A pang of guilt thumps hard and heavy in his clock.

He loves her. No matter the eggshelled issues they've crushed and stomped across, he does love her.

And it's unthinkable to forget about a loved one.

Reprehensible.

Unforgivable.

Guilt surges his system once more, only to be replaced with worry.

Deep worry, that steals breath from his lungs and causes the gears in his neck to tense.

Iracebeth.

Dear, impetuous Iracebeth.

It baffles him how such a small creature can evoke so many emotions from his rather mechanical being.

Walks the path to Mirana's palace quicker than his usual pace. Even his Seconds cannot keep up as he keeps his steps long and frequent.

He breathes deeply while stepping through her clock's portal—he does not like the sensation of portal magic, finds it sticky—and nearly scares the living day lights out of the poor maid dusting the clock's hands.

He has to speed up Himself, but eventually she tells him where to find his beloved.

Iracebeth is not where the silly nit said she was.

Nor is she in the palace at all.

Fear replaces worry as various scenarios run through his head. She's not dead, he can always tell when life pauses, but perhaps she's in pain. Perhaps the Duke escaped and she's enduring his vengeance again, perhaps she's been kidnapped by different enemies and surviving through other horrors, perhaps she's found someone else.

The last thought lingers, fills him with a separate sort of dread altogether. He'd prefer it to any of the other imagined situations, but his clock nearly ticks backwards at the thought of her loving another.

Jealousy replaces fear, irrational as it is.

He walks impossibly faster, though without any direction, stops when his gears steam from overheating.

Maddened wandering will not do, it's inefficient as well as undignified. Best to regroup and search with an actual strategy.

Laughter rings out, happy and bright, he walks towards it, to ask directions back to the palace.

He stumbled upon a tea party.

Not another one.

Unseen, he's about to turn around when a flash of red catches his attention.

Sitting amidst giggling children and waltzing teacups, is Iracebeth, mid-laugh. His breath catches.

She is radiant.

She sees him, freezes, the teacups fall hard on the table. Her smile fades, he fears his last scenario is true.

But her eyes are warm, they crackle like the fire in his parlor, she stands. Walks closer to him in tentative little steps, hands clasped in front of her, bemusement in those enchanting eyes.

"You left your realm."

It's more a statement than a question, though it's obvious she's a bit mystified. He doesn't leave if he can help it, only when things are most dire.

"You weren't there."

She looks down at her hands, something akin to guilt wrinkles her features.

"I meant to tell you, but I wasn't expecting to stay this long—"

"I forgive you."

Her head snaps up at that, and he realizes he means it.

Forgives it all.

"I forgive you."

Wonder in her eyes, wells there along with relief and gratitude.

He desperately wants to kiss her.

Doesn't. Not yet.

"I don't know what to do now." She whispers, somehow she's drifted much closer and he's intoxicated in the proximity of her.

"I'm not quite sure myself."

Her smile happens, like a quiet star shower, brilliant and special and only for him.

He smiles back.

"I think I'm ready to go home."

She waves farewell to the little children at the table behind them, and if Time had a heart, he's sure it will swell in affection for woman beside him.

They walk down the path, and Time feels something gingerly take his hand. He looks down, tiny fingers have slid between his.

Iracebeth.

She's blushing quite prettily, but resolutely staring straight ahead of her.

He wants to kiss her, it's a mighty need, but spares her the embarrassment.

Just holds her hand a bit tighter.

Together, they wander on.


End file.
